


Sometimes Death Seems Better Than The Migraine In My Head

by TOPislife



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Depression, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 05:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8521144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TOPislife/pseuds/TOPislife
Summary: Platonic college AU. Tyler is dealing with depression, and Josh shows up to help him out.





	

I walk into my first class at college. I’m immediately waved over by one of my “friends”.  
“Hey man,” I say nonchalantly. I look to my right and see a guy about my age crouched over and writing something in a notebook. He makes eye contact with me, and I look away with a blush. Gosh, I’m awkward.  
“Hey dude. Did you see the hotties in this class?” my “friend”, Zach, says.  
“Totally.” My eyes drift back to the guy to my right who is starting to fidget. Weird. He has a tattoo around his wrist. It must mean something dear to him.  
“Josh!” I get hit over the head with a textbook.  
“What??” I say sharply while rubbing the back of my head.  
“There’s a chick trying to talk to you,” he points to a blonde girl across the room. She’s staring intently at me. Her blue eyes seem to freeze me to the spot. I clear my throat.  
“No. It’s fine. She probably is just staring at me cuz I look weird.” I shrug it off and turn my back to her. Now I’m looking at the guy who is writing. I catch a glimpse of some words. T’s uncrossed and i’s undotted. I frown.  
“What do you want?” I hear a growl come from the young man.  
“I-I just…I was wondering what you were doing?” I stutter.  
“It’s none of your business, now is it?” He stands up abruptly, grabs his stuff, and walks swiftly out of the room. I stare blankly after him. Weird. Regardless, I sit in my chair as class starts.

 

A few days later, I’m walking across the campus lawn. It’s late autumn, and the trees are naked. It’s a bit brisk, so I’m wearing a heavy sweatshirt. My eyes catch a glimpse of a tattooed wrist. It’s him. He’s hunched over his notebook again. In nothing but a t-shirt and jeans.  
“Hey!” I yell. “You should be wearing warmer clothes.” He looks up from his paper. The numbness on his face matches the numbness of his body. He shrugs off my suggestion and goes back to writing. What the heck is wrong with him? I groan and walk back to my dorm.  
I come back a few minutes later to find him shivering. Sighing, I set the blanket I grabbed around his shoulders. He looks up at me in surprise.  
“What’s your name, man? I’m Josh,” I extend my hand out for him. He looks down at it and clears his throat.  
“Tyler,” he says unsteadily.  
“Why are you sitting out here in the cold?” He shrugs and looks at his notebook. The words lyrics that mean nothing stand out immediately to me. “Are you going to go farther with that? It seems you were gifted with thought.” His eyes widen, and I watch as he writes we were gifted with thought. He smiles, thanks me, then runs off to his dorm.  
“He took my blanket,” I grumble. I wrap my arms around myself and head back to my dorm to warm up. On my way back, I noticed a discarded paper on the ground. I stoop to pick it up, and realize it’s in Tyler’s handwriting. A fight I can’t seem battle anymore. I furrow my brow and stick it in my sweatshirt pocket. I should talk to him about it.  
As the day progresses, I forget about the paper. It becomes pushed into my pocket along with a million other thoughts. My fingers drum against my jeans as I wander through classes. One after another. All my mind can think about is those screwed up lyrics. Twisted over and over in my head. They made sense in a depressing yet hopeful way. I can’t get that face out of my head. The brokenness and pain. I’m sure others don’t notice, but I do.  
I see him a few times throughout the day. He has headphones in. His hands are shaking. I’m confused and scared. All I can see is the paper he’s gripping in his shaky hand. The look of fear and anxiety and something like numbness but not quite on the same level. And those eyes. So cold and distant. Almost angry. I see one of his hands resting by his side. It’s clenching and unclenching. Like it’s debating on whether or not it needs to punch someone.  
“Hey, Tyler,” I wave and walk up to him. He looks at me then looks away. He’s ignoring me? “Can I talk with you about something?” He freezes.  
“About what?” he says roughly, like something is stuck in his throat. I pull out the paper and show it to him.  
“This.” He snatches the paper from me and starts to run away. “Hey!” I yell, running after him.  
We run for a good five minutes before I finally catch up and snag his backpack. He stumbles backwards and lands hard on his butt. I look down at him with angry compassion. His eyes are misty with tears. He’s so vulnerable. I extend my arm to help him up, but he refuses to move. He turns his head away to look at something nonexistent.  
“C’mon man. Tell me what’s going on. I’m scared for you,” my voice shakes, along with everything in my body.  
“You don’t know me. So don’t get in my business,” he growls.  
“Yeah. Like I’m going to turn my cheek to something like suicide. Have you made any plans?”  
“No.”  
“Hurt yourself?”  
“No.”  
“How do you feel about yourself?”  
“A poet without a voice pushed into a world where no one cares if I live or die. Forced into a line that is so pointless and routine that I’d rather kill myself than walk it. Growing older everyday but not finding a use for the breath I breathe. Writing nonsense words and sentences that flow into a pool of depression, anxiety, and death. Wishing everyday was my last, but not having the guts to end it myself. Existing in darkness with a blindfold over my eyes, so that I think I’m the one who is in the dark. Not the whole world. That’s how I feel about myself.” He stands, brushes himself off, and wanders back to his dorm. My mouth is agape, but I don’t have the sense to close it. My mind has been blown into oblivion. A poet without a voice? I heard him loud and clear.

 

A few weeks pass, and I see something I had hoped I would never see. Tyler’s sleeve slips passed the tattoo on his wrist, and I’m suddenly staring at a thin, red line corrupting his white skin. No. Please. I grab his arm and drag him out of the classroom, despite his protesting. I loosen my grip and walk us back to my dorm, where I tell him to sit before going to get some first aid. By the time I return, he’s clutching his arms and rocking back and forth. I sit down in front of him and reach for his left arm. He flinches.  
“It’s okay, Tyler. I’m here to help,” I grab his sleeve gingerly, and he allows me to slide it back. I suck in my breath and look down at the mess of cuts before me. I try to stay manly but tears seem to escape anyway. “Oh gosh, Tyler, why?” I look up at him to see him crying, the tears staining his clothes. I pull him onto the floor next to me and hug him tightly. “No homo. I promise,” I smile through my tears and see a faint one play at the corner of his lips.  
I hold him for hours. He’s either crying, apologizing, or sleeping. As he sleeps, I take care of his wounds. I’m too afraid of what he would do if he was awake. I can’t get him to talk about the cuts. He refuses to say anything but I’m sorry. It’s like a broken record. Something I can’t seem to stop. After a while, he falls completely asleep. I scoop him into my arms and lay him down in my bed before I finish cleaning and bandaging his cuts. Afterwards, I grab a blanket and pillow to lay on the floor next to him. As someone who has dealt with this, I don’t dare leave him alone. I doze off while watching him sleep soundly.  
I wake up the next morning with a hand in my face. Tyler is still sleeping on my bed. I groan and stand up to stretch. I stride to the kitchen to grab myself some coffee, and walk back to find that Tyler has woken up.  
“Hey man. You doing better?” I sit next to him and grab his arm to check his cuts.  
“They’re pretty deep.” He nods and looks down. I sigh and stand up, towering over him. “You scared me so bad. You need help.”  
“No. I can’t. I won’t. This isn’t something meds can fix magically. It’s not simply a chemical imbalance. It goes down to my core. It buries itself deep inside my bones and reaches up through my dreams.” He throws the blanket off. His hands are shaking furiously.  
“Are you okay?” I gesture to his hands. He hides them in his sleeves.  
“I’m fine. It’s a tick. One I can’t explain.” His words are cold and cut sharp into my body. I hand him his bag and watch as he slips out the door. I hope I didn’t distance him.

He continues to avoid me throughout winter break. I know he has nowhere to go because I see him wandering about the campus with headphones in and a light sweatshirt on. He must not feel the cold like the rest of us. As always, his notebook is in hand along with an overused pen.  
I stumble upon a very odd sight a few days later. Tyler is sitting in front of my door with his head in his hands. He’s mumbling something incoherent, and his leg is bouncing, jostling his body.  
“Tyler?” I reach to touch his arm, and his head jerks up.  
“Josh. I couldn’t think properly. So many thoughts. So many lyrics.” His eyes are bright with anxiety and thought. I open my door, and he bolts through it and starts taking out several notebooks.  
“Whoa man. I thought you had only one. Why so many?”  
“They’re full of useless thoughts and maybe some lyrics. I’m not quite sure anymore. The anxiety got to a point where if I didn’t write things down, they’d parade throughout my head, not caring what other things they push out of the way. I’m weird. I talk fast, none of what I say makes sense, and I’m a poet that can’t, and won’t, speak out.” He looks up at me. “I’m Tyler Joseph.”  
“Josh Dun. I never know what to say. I’m too awkward for my own good. I have dreams I want to follow but don’t have the guts. And I’m a drummer without drums.” I smile at him, shrug, and take a seat. “So, what are we doing with all of these?” I gesture to the mess of paper surrounding us. He smiles brightly up at me. Hopeful.  
“We’re going to speak out.”

 

I’m sitting in my desk a few weeks later. Worried. Tyler isn’t here. This is the second day he’s missed in a row. He texted me this morning to tell me not to worry. He has a nasty cold. But Tyler doesn’t get colds. Mainly because he doesn’t get cold. Weird.  
I walk to his dorm after class. I knock on the door, but he doesn’t answer. Weird. I grab the key that he stashed on the top of the door frame. I unlock the door carefully, and walk into a dorm that I don’t even recognize.  
“Tyler!” I yell. Nothing. Where is he? I wander through his dorm until I find him in a corner of his room. His hand is clutching a bloodied razor. I rush to him and yank the razor from him, accidentally slicing my hand in the process. “What happened?” I force him to look at me. “You were doing so well.”  
“I-I don’t know,” he looks up at me with scared, tear filled eyes. “I couldn’t stop myself.” I help him up and take him to the bathroom to wash up. His arms are covered in harsh, red lines. Tears fall from my cheeks as I wash away the blood. His hands are shaking. His breathing is ragged, and he’s muttering things under his breath.  
After I clean him up, I take him to his room to change into comfortable pajamas. I slip his worn covers over him, and sit by him as he falls asleep. Then, I carefully slip out of his room to look for the rest of the blades, and to clean his dorm. I find his hidden stash of razor blades under the sink in the bathroom. There are also a couple bottles of strong sleeping pills, so I snag those as well. I don’t want him to have anything that can cause him harm. I walk out into his little living room and find a mess of papers, half eaten sandwiches, and empty glasses. I sigh quietly and get to cleaning.  
I’ve been cleaning for about an hour when I hear a small voice come from behind me.  
“Thank you.” Tyler is wrapped up in a blanket. His shoulders are slightly slumped. I walk up to him and hug him tightly.  
“You’re going to be okay, man. I promise. It just takes some time. I can help you through it if you want. I’ve dealt with some things myself.” I smile softly and stand back. The corners of his lips lift a bit.  
“If you don’t mind, I really would like the help.”  
“I got you fam,” I laugh lightly and turn to get back to cleaning. He chips in a bit. Mainly so he can organize his papers. We make quick work of it all. His dorm is spotless by the time dinner rolls around.  
“Wanna order a pizza?” I ask, looking over at him.  
“Bro, of course.” He jumps up from his place of the floor and grabs his phone from kitchen counter. “What kind of pizza do you like?”  
“Any kind,” I respond while I look through his papers on the floor. “These are good, Tyler. Are you writing another song?” I realize he’s still on the phone with the pizza guy. Oops. I chuckle to myself and read through a few of his songs. They need some work, but needless to say, they’re good for a guy with anxiety and depression. Somehow they’re hopeful. Which seems to be the exact opposite of Tyler.  
“Pizza is going to be here soon. What are you doing?” He looks down at me with a protective look.  
“These are very good. I mean, they need some work, but if you came up with a tune for them, they’d be almost perfect.” His look softens as he sits next to me. “See, these lyrics would work better with this song. You just gotta make sure they aren’t too chaotic. Otherwise they can scare the listener.” He nods as I point out paper after paper, lyric after lyric, word after word.  
We sit there for hours, working on songs. One after another. At the end of the night, we’ve almost composed one. Some of the lyrics need to be adjusted, and a score needs to be written, but it looks good. We high five.  
“Hey man, can I move into your dorm?” I ask cautiously.  
“Why?” He gives me a weird look.  
“Bro, no. I don’t like you like that. I just want to keep an eye on you.” He smiles and nods slowly.  
“I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a fic. Hope you guys like it.


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